My mom used to introduce me as “her quiet one.” There’s a videotape of an effusive, chatterbox me — one that confirms my earliest memories — at 2 1/2 years old. From first grade, I could take a stage fearlessly — singing, speaking, and acting. But somewhere behind the scenes, when the curtain closed, I was silent; introverted and soft-toned on the occasion I spoke.

Some part of me muted somewhere between 2 1/2 and 4 years old, probably not for happy reasons. It took the better part of ten years to wrap my fingers around the volume dial. In some ways, it took me another four to begin to turn it up. As an adult, on the dark night I arguably needed my voice most, just shy of my 30th birthday, I found myself uttering a mere partial sentences. In hindsight, perhaps for the same reasons — fear, intuition, survival.

Reasonless Silence

At my core, I’m an extrovert, happy to share any thought I’ve actually processed. From what I’ve witnessed and exchanged, it seems I process a little faster than most. As a result, people who know me now don’t equate me with silence; in fact, much more with talkativeness. When I fall silent, I’m inevitably asked what’s wrong. Most of the time, nothing. I’m merely being; tired of thoughts, weary of words and making sounds.

There are times I’m still afraid to speak. Sometimes, I choose not to out of deference to someone else. Occasionally, the words are still forming in me. I’m what’s known as a great conversationalist; I can hold my own and connect to virtually anyone, no matter the volume they operate at. But if it’s not my authentic self relating in the moment, I’m exhausted afterwards. I’m at my best when I’m genuine, and I’m genuine most of the time. Expression comes effortlessly in these moments.

Paper Words

I’ve never been a writer who outlines; oftentimes, I have little idea of even a central topic until I hit the first word. There’s a synthesis that happens in some back room of my brain; I see glimpses of it, moments of recognition, a passing thought I register and watch disappear. I’ve written 20-page analytical essays this way; argumentative papers; reflective essays; and virtually every blog entry, definitely every poem.

There’s a moment, a halfway physical feeling of peace in the center my chest. Perhaps some part of me becomes aware of some internal draft breezing, as the door to that backroom opens.

And then it comes out in one shot, every comma, period, word. I’ve learned that when that peace is absent, I can resort to an outline, push words out, but they’re forced constructions, rather than the product of a brain and heart that work together. I’d rather not type.

Opting Out of Words

Lately, I’ve been unusually quiet. There have been gatherings, dates, meet-ups with friends, business meetings. I fielded non-stop conversations as a bridesmaid in a weekend wedding. But when I don’t have to, in the company of myself or those I am most comfortable around, I’m the quiet one. I knew someone who, at every major life change, visited a hermitage with a vow of silence, always finding the next trail of her path in the hours she emerged.

Unhearable Music

I’m amazed at my patience lately. I’m amazed at how little I desire to disturb the silence. I’m half-stunned I’ve typed even these words in its acknowledgement. Something has been moving inside me; some score with scribbles on loose pages of staff paper, perhaps still too cacophonous, a little out of order, a bit out of synch. They’re still working it out in the backroom, I guess. And I’m still waiting for that peace.

There are moments that punctuate the rhythms of our daily lives, kind of like the rests on sheet music that intersperse with sound. These pauses, most frequently curled and fleeting, have more persistent cousins that sit on or across the lines. But occasionally, you’ll hit a sheet of music with whole lines of black, presence and emptiness of prolonged silence. These measures, that wait — the precise time between the last sound you heard and the smallest next sound you will — that’s the music too. Eventually, all encapsulated in movements.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

Chances are, you don’t want to think about it. In fact, we push our deepest guilts so far down, they often don’t come to mind even when we ask ourselves that question. Then every once in a while, out of blue, something brings them to our remembrance. We feel slightly ill, horrified all over again, to remember — and then push it out of our minds once more.

Sometimes, I dream permutations of the same dream. It starts with a single realization: I’ve killed someone, usually by accident, usually someone I don’t know. I often have no recollection of the murder; simply a moment of horrified recognition that it must have been me. I’m segueing, dodging, acting cool, double-checking, covering my tracks. No one is actually chasing me, but I’m mentally on the run, consumed by the knowledge of what I’ve done, what I have to lose, and what “they” know.

The last time I recall having this dream, my father appeared. In some moment thereafter, my dream self had a single, clear thought: “It’s strange that I would committed this crime. It doesn’t make sense. The logical conclusion is that this is one of those dreams.”

I don’t remember where my dad was in reality when I dreamt this. Perhaps sleeping at home himself; maybe in a coma; perhaps his body already broken down to ash. But I credit his appearance with the awareness that came afterwards. Our parents remain convinced of our better nature. It seems no coincidence that the single dream in which I knew that I was innocent, the realization came after a dinner conversation in dreamland with Dad.

Most of us haven’t ever taken a life. Maybe we’ve had moments of verbal or physical violence, perhaps we’ve said the regrettable, broken trusts and promises, defaulted on responsibilities. We’ve probably given up more than a few times, angled for our own way, lied in a panic, gained in a way that caused another to lose, broken a few hearts. We have vices, from chocolate to tobacco; from porn to ale; from shopping to drugs. We’ve all lived a moment, in essence, that’s so unbelievably beyond our sense of morality that we can’t believe the actor in the scene was us.

And that’s the whole, entire point.

We even neglect to validate and recognize the sense of innate goodness that leads us to gasp at these snapshots of us at our worst.

This morning, I fretted over coffee over an impending week-long stay in the presence of someone who judges me. What bothers me most isn’t that they dislike me — or even the stuff they misconstrue. Sure, no one likes to be misunderstood, alienated or hurt — but the things others say that haunt us are the ones that make us doubt our own goodness and sense of self. Many such judgments this person has flung my way consist mainly of third-hand gossip, suspicion, and one-sided perspective out of context — but in some scenarios, there’s truth. Amid the misunderstandings, misinformation and misjudgments are some of my least wonderful moments.

So who am I to argue, when she reminds me of over a decade of mistakes? When the evidence seems to point to our guilt, our badness, who are we to presume our innocence?

Enter Dad into dreamland. (He should come more often, as my dream self obviously needs to retain a good attorney.)

My parents were, like most of ours are, my biggest fans. They had four children; each unique. They saw our flaws, loved us anyway, and celebrated our beauty, distinctness, talents, aptitudes, personalities. They saw the wholeness behind the biographical narratives our actions created. Quite simply, they saw us as people, with compassion and understanding. We were more than our past to them; we were our potential. We were more than our errors; we were our reasons; we were our recoveries.

Over two years ago, a client did not pay for a hefty project my company produced. This placed me in a bind — subcontractors who merited payment, without incoming payment to facilitate. In these cases, as always, I made a practice of paying, partially out of a sense of duty, and partly out of empathy for the freelancers I once was. My father had loaned me money to help me make good on my word . Amid a personal life stretched with stress, I carried a single guilt: I paid the contractors, except for one in particular.

It haunted me.

I would remind myself to pay them, and then I’d forget. I’d remember occasionally when paying bills that brought my bank balance too close for comfort, and add it to a “to do” list when I got paid next. I’d push it out of my mind, eventually forget, and remember with horror each time. How could I do this to someone?

I even found myself in the same room with this contractor in a social situation, by total and sheer random coincidence. I considered righting the situation, but didn’t have my checkbook on me and didn’t want to make a promise that may appear empty. I’d never met them face to face; I’d wanted to compliment them that evening, introduce myself, but the shame was too much. I kept my distance and vowed I’d pay.

As I sat down to do so, I had a moment of confusion as I stared at their name on an old cashed check, dated after that project. I blinked, double-checked. I had paid them, on time and in full, along with everyone else, over a year prior. In fact, they had been my first payment on that project. This explained why they never asked for payment. I realized that amid my stress over covering the gap, that contractor had been my first worry — and somehow, I kept worrying, even when there was nothing to worry about.

In our own imaginations, we cast ourselves as villains — and then we suffer when others do the same. I came very close to double-paying a contractor for work I was never compensated for. But worse, I spent so much needless stress, and self-vilification, on a crime I didn’t commit. Essentially, I lived out my recurring dream, convicted and horrified, for an assumption, an illusion.

Over that cup of coffee this morning, my boyfriend reiterated one of his beautiful thoughts: the absence of absolute right and wrong. You are the one to decide, he so often tells me, and I immediately disqualify myself. “Who am I to judge myself?” I wonder. “What if I’m wrong?” “What if I’m too easy on myself?” “What if everyone knew that thing?”

Maybe if I’d walked shamelessly up to the contractor that night, I would have gotten thanked for the money I’d absentmindedly sent and cleared up my guilt and confusion. Maybe there will be no moment of confrontation in the presence of my judge this week; maybe, as my optimistic coffee partner pointed out, there will be healing and laughter instead. I’m completely not perfect. Perhaps occasionally, I’ll still sit a little horrified at my own humanity.

But maybe I’ll take a lesson from my dad, my mom — instead trying to see myself beyond the mistakes I’ve made, the cases others present, or the verdicts reached.

Sometimes our dreams, our nightmares, change course with a little perspective. Our ability to do so is our key to redemption — in our actions, our paths, our perspectives.

I think I’ll change course, myself.  I’d planned on walking on eggshells this week; but walking shamelessly sounds a little better.